Angel continued, ‘Or, like me, banged my stupid head on a rock face wandering around staring at condors and not looking where I was going.’
This was how Angel had explained away the bruise on his face caused by his fight with Tor; Missy, Toby and the other expedition members acknowledged it with nods of recognition.
‘Tor took great care of all of us who depended on him for our safety and our lives,’ Angel continued, his sincerity utterly believable. ‘His sweet, open nature, his wonderful sense of humour, which kept us all in stitches, his strength, his innate nobility – I genuinely feel that I could stand here all day listing the qualities that made him so unique, such a hero. But I’ve spoken long enough. And no matter how much I say, I could never fully describe what the world has lost with Tor’s passing. So I’m yielding now to my beloved grandmother, Tor’s godmother, who’s known him since he was born and will be speaking for the family, at the request of Tor’s parents.’
Bowing his head sympathetically to Tor’s mother and father, Angel paused for a few seconds, keeping his head ducked, the blond curls tumbling forward, letting the silence gather. The mourners gathered in St Elfrida’s Parish Church lowered their heads too; when Angel eventually looked up again and stepped down from the lectern, there was a collective release of breath, a little shuffle as everyone resettled themselves in their pews.
As Angel helped Vivienne up from her seat, handed her up to the low podium on which the lectern stood and sat back down next to Christine, she reached out to take his hand, squeezing it tightly, conveying how proud she was of him. Tor was gone, and whatever they might have had together had vanished with him. While Angel had, by all accounts, been a linchpin of the search for Tor, working tirelessly, refusing to rest until he was literally dropping with fatigue.
She had heard as much from Missy and Toby, who had both turned up at Angel’s penthouse the afternoon they’d landed in London, finding that they couldn’t face being separated after the intense bonding experience of the expedition and the frantic hunt for Tor. They had hung out until late into the night, drinking, smoking, crying, mourning.
Naturally, there had been no mention of their threesome with Angel: ‘what happens in the tent stays in the tent’, as Angel had joked. Instead, Missy and Toby had raved about Angel to Christine: how intensely he had thrown himself into looking for Tor, so much so that he had almost fainted with exhaustion, and had had to be practically strapped down to his cot to force him to sleep for a few hours.
This was perfectly true. Of course, what none of the other expedition members knew was that the reason Angel had been looking for Tor so frantically was because he was terrified that Tor might somehow, miraculously, have survived the fall. Concealed in Angel’s jacket pocket throughout the search had been a small rock with a nastily pointed edge, which Angel was ready to bring sharply down on Tor’s head should he find Tor anything but satisfactorily dead.
Angel was still in shock that Tor had not been found. Clearly, the crevasse into which he had thrown Tor’s unconscious body had been an even longer slide into the abyss than he had realized, leading God knew where. Tor must have taken one hell of a ride down that slope to end up so deep at the base of some rock fissure that not even the hovering helicopters could spot the bright pop of his red jacket through the stubby undergrowth. Angel could only guess that Tor, tumbling down the mountain, had precipitated a rock fall of shale and stone that had come to rest on top of him, burying him as it settled.
Angel hadn’t known that he had the resources to drive his body as hard as he had done over the five days of the search. But then, he had never killed someone before. You lived, you learned. And mainly, what he had learned from this experience was that murder was surprisingly easy. As Christine took his hand and pressed it affectionately, as he closed his fingers around hers and turned to give her a loving glance, he was already wondering how soon after she’d had the second child he could stage an unfortunate accident for her.
He was going to have to marry her, no question about that. His gambling contacts had been predictably furious at him turning up at the casino empty-handed; he had been forced, to his huge chagrin, to turn over the deeds to his ski lodge in Verbier in order to clear his debts, and he doubted the sale value would cover the full amount he owed them. He was skint, as the finder’s fee from Lil’ Biscuit and Silantra would be heavily depleted by his other debts. The marriage bonus and gift of a Notting Hill mansion, together with the reinstatement of his full trust fund income, would settle him nicely, and once Vivienne had been presented with an adorable grandchild, the money tap would keep on flowing. But, unquestionably, he needed money now.
However, there was also the long-term future to be considered. Vivienne had mentioned a bonus for two children, but after that he doubted she’d keep forking out a comparably big wodge for any more arrivals. And Christine’s value would drop precipitately as soon as there were no more financial incentives for him to keep her alive. When Vivienne stopped coughing up more millions for the next heir to the Winter gene pool, it would be more than time for Christine to pop her clogs.
Divorce would be out of the question. Any half-decent divorce lawyer would hold his feet to the fire, especially because Vivienne was insistent that the mother of her grandchildren stop work to bring them up at home. Angel would lose vast amounts of his money in alimony payments if he was required to keep Christine in the style to which she would have become accustomed as a stay-at-home mother. No, much better for her to perish in tragic circumstances on – perhaps – a hike they took together. Pushing someone off a cliff had worked so well for him already; why not try it again?
Angel would ensure, of course, that he had absolutely no motive for killing Christine. He would seem a devoted husband and father, with no hidden lovers coming out of the woodwork. This could be achieved by limiting himself sexually to men on the down-low who wanted to keep their proclivities secret, and could therefore be relied upon not to spill the beans to any police officers who might come sniffing around. And Nicole, naturally. Nicole could always be trusted to be a hundred per cent discreet.
Looking up at Vivienne at the lectern, Angel wondered how long she could possibly live. Probably forever, he thought bitterly. But even if Viv does shuffle off her mortal coil sooner rather than later, I’m still pushing Christine off that cliff.
He had a sudden wave of sympathy for the ex-tycoon who had refused to pay his wife her alimony, and ended up murdered by the Russian mob in consequence. Divorce really was shockingly expensive.
Silver-tongued Angel had delivered his eulogy to Tor completely impromptu, but Vivienne was an actress who needed a script, and there was one written for her by her publicist waiting for her on the lectern, printed out in extra-large type. From the moment she cleared her throat, ensuring she had the absolute attention of everyone present, and said, ‘We all loved Tor so very, very much,’ a collective sigh ran through the gathering in St Elfrida’s. Her mellifluous, beautiful voice was pitched to carry right to the back of the church, while still making her listeners feel that she was speaking intimately to each of them. The mourners seemed to sag with grief, as if Vivienne had given them permission to yield fully to their emotions, to relax their stiff upper lips.
She was dressed, as always, in a beautifully judged outfit, a black suit with a dark purple silk blouse. Huge amethysts, surrounded by diamonds, shone in her ears, and there was a matching pendant at the neck of the blouse; enough jewellery to show respect, but not so much that it distracted from the seriousness of the occasion.
Her eulogy had been carefully crafted, but that hadn’t been strictly necessary. Vivienne could have read out a Wikipedia entry on how to unblock drains and the mourners would have been equally spellbound by her presence, her charisma, her voice, throbbing with grief. Halfway through, people who had been gravely respectful at Angel’s tribute were openly sobbing; by the end, Tor’s parents had pretty much collapsed.
Down-to-earth country people, the
y had simply not felt up to the task of addressing such a celebrated crowd, studded with film stars and more than one member of the royal family; Princess Sophie, clad for once in a skirt that fell below her knees, was seated on Toby’s other side. Ironic though it was that Vivienne should be delivering the main eulogy, considering her long-term affair with Arnvald, she gave a wonderful performance. By the end, there was not a dry eye in the house. Angel was more than capable of crying on command.
The vicar gave a final blessing, which was barely heard; it served more as an opportunity for the mourners to calm themselves down and apply tissues to their eyes. Vivienne, who had cried a little herself, had been experienced enough to wear a toque hat to the service, pinned carefully to her wig. Now she lowered its attached veil to disguise puffy eyes whose make-up was a little smudged. Many other women, who hadn’t taken this precaution, glanced at her wistfully. The veil had more than one benefit: as she rose to her feet once more, Vivienne adjusted it to fit neatly under her chin, concealing any loose skin in that area.
‘I’ll have Gregory take me home,’ she said to Angel and Christine as they moved back down the aisle, among the last people to leave. ‘I’m utterly shattered. I need to rest.’
‘Of course, Grandma,’ Angel said, patting her hand, which was clasping his arm.
‘It always takes so much out of me now, performing in public,’ Vivienne said ingenuously. ‘Signings for my perfume and jewellery are much easier – I’m sitting down, and I can just smile and thank everyone and pose for photos. But reading from a script really tires me out these days. My eyesight simply isn’t as good as it was, and I do worry about getting words wrong, you know?’
Christine could only be grateful that Tor’s parents were preceding them up the aisle, the vicar walking with them and offering condolences in a quiet voice, so that they were unable to hear Vivienne comparing her eulogy for their dead son to a performance. Outside, the waiting photographers called the names of the celebrities they saw exiting the church, but in more muted tones than normal out of respect for the occasion; still, a buzz had started as soon as the vergers opened the church doors, a rumble like a volcano starting to erupt, the first dark drops of lava trickling from the crater. Although Vivienne was a draw, the overwhelming focus was on the newly formed couple of Prince Toby and Missy Jackson.
Tremendous speculation had been raging in the press over the relationship between the prince and the action star, not just because Missy was famous, but because she was mixed-race. A love affair between a handsome scion of the British royal family and an actress who had not only conducted many fight scenes in her underwear, but was half African American and half Latina, was making the world’s media salivate. What if the relationship lasted? What if Prince Toby proposed, and the two adorable little princesses born to Prince Hugo and his bride Chloe were presented in due course with a cousin who was the first-ever non-white addition to the royal family?
Toby and Missy had not been seen out in public together since the return from the expedition a week ago. The palace had issued a dignified press release stating that Toby was grieving for the death of his friend and colleague, and would appreciate privacy at this difficult time. Certainly, he had not been seen at any of the Chelsea nightclubs he would normally be frequenting. Missy had technically been staying in a suite at the Langham Hotel, but the paparazzi had been tailing her limo every day as it left her hotel around lunchtime, after her daily workout, and drove to the gates of Kensington Palace, where Toby had an apartment. As late as the paparazzi waited outside the gates, Missy had never emerged before the next morning.
The couple were not hand in hand as they walked back down the aisle, but their bodies were almost touching, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, as they moved in synch. Missy paused in the narthex of the church to blot away the last of her tears. Her extraordinarily smooth complexion was barely marred by the fact that she had been crying. There were shadows under her eyes, but they only made her skin seem more lucidly translucent, her eyes more sloe-like.
Toby looked at her worshipfully. Missy was the same height as him, and as he reached a hand out to smooth a tight curl from her forehead, their eyes met in mutual empathy.
‘Do you two want to come back to ours?’ Angel asked Toby, patting his back sympathetically. ‘We’ve got a car park in the basement of the building. You can drive right in so you don’t get snapped getting out of the limo.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ Toby said, but he waited for Missy to make the decision.
Christine noticed Toby deferring to Missy, as she had done over the last few days when she and Angel had been invited to Kensington Palace for quiet dinners in Toby’s apartment. Toby had fallen head over heels for Missy, jumping up when she came into a room, rushing to get her anything she needed. It was very sweet. Having only known Toby by reputation as a wild party boy, this quiet, devoted boyfriend was quite a contrast from what Christine had been expecting. It was as if Tor’s death had made Toby grow up overnight, realizing that it was time to start taking life seriously.
‘I just want to rest,’ Missy said softly. ‘I’ve cried my eyes out and I’m getting the worst headache.’
‘Whatever you want, darling,’ Toby said, taking her hand. ‘Your place or mine?’
But Missy’s attention was elsewhere: she was staring admiringly at Vivienne. Quite deliberately, Vivienne had delayed her arrival at St Elfrida’s until just before the start of the memorial service, never missing an opportunity to make an entrance. Her gracious progression down the aisle had been in the grande dame manner, the veil on her toque hat raised, nodding to the faces she knew, acknowledging the murmurs of recognition and awe with an appropriately sad smile. Missy, therefore, had not had a chance to be introduced to her, and the young actress looked thoroughly star-struck even in these circumstances.
‘Ms Winter, I just wanted to say how incredibly moving you were,’ Missy said, managing not to gush. ‘I’ve been crying for so long now, ever since we heard Tor was missing, and I thought I was all done. But honestly, as soon as you started to speak . . .’ She wiped away another tear. ‘You really brought him back. I could see his face in front of us all over again.’
Vivienne, whose speech had been full of platitudes and generalizations, smiled charmingly at this tribute.
‘You’re very sweet,’ she said. ‘And I hear from Angel how hard you looked for my godson. I thank you with all my heart for everything you did for Tor, you and Toby.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ Toby said swiftly. ‘Nothing to thank us for. We’re so sorry we couldn’t bring back—’
‘Toby, don’t,’ Missy said so strongly that he immediately stopped, and mumbled apologies for his reference to the fact that they did not have Tor’s body to bury. ‘I can’t.’
Vivienne cast Missy a glance of approval that she had Toby so firmly under voice control.
‘It’s terribly hard for all of us,’ she said, taking her gloves from Gregory and sliding them on. ‘If you will excuse me, I must find my car. I’m simply in pieces from all of this.’
‘Of course,’ Missy said in a hurry. ‘I just wanted to—’
Vivienne held up one gloved hand to stop her, in a neatly executed diva gesture.
‘Darling, not now,’ she purred. ‘But Toby must bring you to see me soon in Mayfair.’
‘Oh, that would be amazing!’ Missy exclaimed as Vivienne, assuming a suitably grave expression, looped her arm once more through Angel’s and glided out through the arched doorway – pausing between the stone columns of the portico, and using them as a frame to give the waiting photographers a perfectly composed shot. Only after a minute did she begin to descend the steps to her waiting limousine.
Christine hung back, gesturing to Toby and Missy to go next. She would have felt hugely self-conscious walking out before them on her own, hearing the sighs of disappointment from the paparazzi and the public as she made her way down the steps and across the fenced-off area in front of the church. Ever since the
early days of her association with the Winter family, she had had more than enough of that feeling on red carpets and press conferences. It was like being an extra on the set of a film: invisible at best, a nonentity at worst.
As the prince and the film star appeared on the church portico, shadowed by Toby’s bodyguard, there was an eruption of excitement. Toby’s press secretary had been briefing the media that Toby and Missy were spending time together after their return from the Andes to recover from their grief, while Missy’s publicist had been planting stories in the American tabloids confirming that the two of them were romantically linked. Both sides, however, had strictly instructed Toby and Missy not to be seen holding hands, let alone kissing in public, as it would look as if they weren’t sufficiently sorrowful about their friend’s shocking death.
Missy had considered her funeral look with great care. It needed to be restrained and elegant, to convey her eligibility to become a princess, but also high-fashion enough to gain approval from the online commentariat. The Givenchy dress and Jimmy Choo low-heeled slingbacks had been sourced for her by a very expensive London stylist, and her pearl earrings came from Garrard’s, Crown Jewellers for a hundred and sixty years, the acme of respectability. As she walked down the church steps by Toby’s side, a tall, slight figure in head-to-toe black, the clicking of the cameras was almost deafening.
The bodyguard moved forward to hold the car door open, Toby chivalrously gesturing for Missy to go first. Her publicist, up before dawn in New York to watch the coverage in New York on E! News Live, sighed blissfully in the knowledge that one just couldn’t buy this kind of publicity, while speculating on whether, if Toby and Missy did marry, the palace would let her keep working if she agreed not to shoot any more action scenes in her underwear.
Killer Diamonds Page 31
